Into Battle
by DuchessMoonMoon13
Summary: Sherlock's thoughts and confessions on the day of John and Mary's wedding, from the bottom of his soul. One-sided Johnlock musing.


**Disclaimer: This poor man and all mentioned parties belong to the Conan Doyle estate, and BBC**. **Not me.  
First shot at an angst riddled piece. Hope you like it! Maybe drop a review?  
Happy Reading!**  
**~DuchessMoonMoon  
**

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They say that the course of true love never ran smoothly, but sayings as such are for those incapable of creating their own coherent thoughts on such matters. Not that I had ever paid an ounce of attention to love or any course it chose to take. I've always made it a point to be alone. Alone I am safe. Or that was the lie I always fed myself. It kept me separate from the common stock of heartbroken sobs that flowed freely all around me, living on love and hate rather than logic and fact. It all changed when I took a flatmate...

No one had ever bothered to find my skills anything more than 'bizarre' and 'freakish' until he came along. It was almost as if he was speaking a different language, to hear him compliment me in such a way. 'Brilliant' was a word I'd only be willing to call myself, never would I expect to hear it uttered by another in my direction. But he had.

He came along with me to crime scene after crime scene on the first case we had together, and even saved my life within hours of meeting me. I'd never known a friend before, but I knew then I'd found one. Our adventures continued, sometimes more boring and simple than I'd like, but he kept me sane, kept me right until we found another that could challenge my mind. He allowed my short comings and chose to accept me into his life, even with the way I had to deal with the things that happened in my mind.

Oh, my mind. And how he understood it so well. In a world of people who seemed to barely be self aware, he understood. He knew that it all flooded me, and that I needed the chase. It was so hard to calm myself at times, so hard not to go find a needle somewhere, slide it into my vein and revert back to the life I'd led prior, but he stayed. He sat up with me in the beginning, when the withdraws clawed their way into my everyday work and brought me back into the darkness. Before him, before now, maybe I'd go find a high, shoot a little too much up. Maybe I'd go too far.

Then, I died. Not really, you understand. But to the world I was dead and in the ground. And to him. He couldn't know. He had to be safe. He had to be alright. He'd saved my life over and over, time and time again. He saved me from physical harm, from boredom, from insanity, from myself. So he had to be safe, no matter the cost.

And I couldn't say a word. Oh, how I wanted to. I checked in on him, through my brother or through Molly, making sure he wasn't succumbing to depression. He was safe, and I was dead. Until I wasn't. Moriarty's network fell and I could come home. I could be back on Baker Street, we could be together. I was beyond joyed, never more happy about a single thing in the whole of my existence. I plotted carefully how to surprise him. I thought he'd be happy. I tried to make him see me, but he was so distracted.

Until I saw Mary. Beautiful, sweet Mary. She looked at him the way I always did, only on her, he noticed. Her eyes shined when he spoke, and I understood why he was too distracted to see me. And I knew then he'd never see me. Not like I see him. This one wasn't like the others, the ones from before. She didn't insult me, nor did she attempt to send me away. She made it a point to keep our friendship important and not take him from me completely. Almost as if she knew.

I wanted his day to be perfect for him. I read all the books, watched videos on the internet for hours. I've composed a waltz for them. I looked at suits and dresses more than I thought I'd ever have to in my life. He called me his best friend, and I thought I may pass out. The one man who was better to me than anyone before, this man. He was kinder, more just than anyone I knew. And I was his chosen best friend.

I know she loves him. I know this like I know how to spell my own name. But her love is not like mine. Her love isn't as pure. You may read these words and think of the term 'homosexual', and you may say that. But I like to believe there is no sexual preference about what I feel. His soul is good for mine, he is good for me. I love him in a way she never can. I gave up my reputation as a genius as well as the life I was living to keep him safe. I would give anything I will ever have to make this man's life better. So today I wear a suit.

I will stand in a church, I wear a suit, I can even smile for the pictures that will come. I will play him a song, watch him dance. I will give a speech, I will propose a toast. I will watch my heart burn, the way Moriarty always said he would. Maybe this is what he meant. I was gone because of him, and he moved on. He kept living, and I can never tell him these things. But someone needed to know, I no longer have the ability to be heartless, to be a machine. I can't simply tuck it away inside any longer.

John Hamish Watson has made me human, and today I am his best man.


End file.
